


Tasting

by wanda von dunayev (wandavon)



Category: The Mask of Zorro (1998)
Genre: Biting, Blood Kink, M/M, No Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape Fantasy, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24597184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandavon/pseuds/wanda%20von%20dunayev
Summary: 'Don Alejandro' (so-called) cannot escape Love after their afternoon chat, though he’s put in a valiant effort.
Relationships: Harrison Love/Alejandro Murrieta
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	Tasting

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Alejandro and Love share a drink.

'Don Alejandro' (so-called) cannot escape Love after their afternoon chat, though he’s put in a valiant effort. Every time Love crosses his path he sets his jaw and those fathomless eyes flicker over him as if he can simply erase Love from his sight. Easy enough to choose blindness, Love supposes. It is the start of summer, and the sky is brilliant as molten glass.

Montero shares none of Love's suspicions—if he shares them, he hides it well--and so both he and Don Alejandro are obliged to follow him for a stroll and drink in the gardens of the Montero hacienda. It is the deepest heat of afternoon. Love sweats in his uniform, and Don Alejandro stands, back rigidly straight, knuckles white around his wineglass.

But Montero has the Spanish court on his mind, that much is plain. Dreaming of a good marriage for Elena, he tells Love (which is insulting in itself. Has Montero not noticed him courting Elena, or does he find it as laughable as Elena being courted by his horse?). Dreaming of a widowed duchess and vineyards in La Rioja, more like. Well, who can blame him?

Montero, for his part, is completely oblivious to the hatred between the two men with him, self-contained as only noblemen can be. He boasts of his lands and plantations and mines, filling a silence so thick even the towhees seem to know not to sing. The jacarandas are brilliant, lifeless. It’s all miserable.

Love keeps a distance from the other two as they stroll, a step behind. Ever the loyal soldier, cognizant of differences in rank and birth despite his gauche Northern manners. No matter. It suits him and gives him the space to study Don Alejandro.

Of course the likeness is unmistakable. He’s stared at that pickled head often enough. He’d noticed it immediately, though like the memory of a dream lost on waking he had not been able to place Don Alejandro’s face in the pale, puffy cheeks and shrunken eyes.

He’s returned to Murrieta’s head more often these days. Musing on mortality, if he's feeling philosophical. What is a head without thoughts? What is the body when the spark illuminating it is quenched?

Musing on failure, more often. He once dreamed of being the hero of legend, George Washington crossing the Delaware, sparkling on his white horse--no, Lafayette, dashing, polished razor-bright amid horror. Envied by men, sighed over by women. Well, the women sigh over Love, grant him that. In the market even the local girls who know better look twice, giggle, smile.

But the heroism, the splendour of stories… it's all become shabby. Worn thin.

"Captain, you must join us," Montero is saying. Beside him, Don Alejandro grimaces.

If Love has needed any further proof that Don Alejandro is a fraud, it's how poorly he hides his anger and discomposure. His manners are not up to the task. Some nobleman.

“It would be my pleasure," he says. And means it.

* * *

What Montero wants is to play cards and drink on the veranda, as if it isn’t two in the afternoon. This is most irregular, and a little embarrassing. Men play cards at night, women in the day, and Love feels half asleep in the melting heat. And when the servant comes with wine it’s a ruby-clear Barolo, rich and enormous, the last thing he wants as he slowly suffocates. He wonders if Montero is testing him, or testing Don Alejandro. Or maybe he simply wants to torture them both.

None of them enjoy the game. Montero is thinking of wealth, Spain, power. Love is thinking of Murrieta’s head in its jar. Don Alejandro is visibly imagining severing Love’s.

Love lets Montero win most rounds after an acceptable interval, but Don Alejandro is far too aggressive a card player for a nobleman. He notices it because he’d been the same when he first rolled into California as a mercenary. It was Montero who corrected that in him, not unkindly but unmistakably. “The Dons will notice if you seem too preoccupied with money,” he’d said. “It will make you seem deprived. You’re not deprived, are you?”

Don Alejandro seems deprived. He leans over his cards, shielding them with his body, angling himself away as if Montero would be caught in an act as crass as peeking. He seems half-starved, hungry, cagey as an urchin. 

Of course, studying him so closely Love has also noticed kinder features: enormous doe eyes, elegant lips, the hollows beneath his cheekbones. All the better. A beautiful trophy is more pleasurable to have, and to collect.

He’s interrupted in his reflections by the sound of breaking crockery indoors. Elena’s raised voice is audible for a few seconds, shouting, “I’ll do no such thing!”

Montero starts, rising with barely an, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” before he disappears inside, leaving Love and Don Alejandro alone.

Alone. Again, for the first time since Love cornered him and Don Alejandro slipped away, smiling even as his face was white with rage.

They sit in silence for a moment. Love stretches out his legs, still comparing the face before him to the one puckered and bloated in his desk, aware all the while of his sword’s weight at his hip, its distance from his hand. 

Don Alejandro twitches, then lurches forwards, braced on his fingers. He seems to be just barely holding himself back from violence.

“I am quite surprised, Captain,” Don Alejandro says. His voice is dark, as if what most surprises him is that Love is not already on the ground with his intestines unravelling. “I had not thought this sort of drink would suit your very particular tastes.”

“Far be it from me to refuse the wine of kings.” It’s surprisingly easy to sound pleasant, and even more surprisingly his smile feels real. “Of course, I’m certain a Don’s palate would shame mine. I’m sure you know the year this was made. In fact, I’m sure you’ve visited this very maker in his very vineyard. Why don’t you tell us about it when Don Rafael returns? He would be charmed. He’s quite the connoisseur himself.”

Don Alejandro grinds his teeth at him, and for a split second he looks so deranged—whites of his eyes gleaming, tendons in his neck standing up—Love’s palms tingle. His palms and something else, more intimate.

That surprises him. He has a weakness for tall, dark and striking, like Elena, though if he's being honest the ‘Don’s’ head reaches maybe his chin. He is short and swarthy, though that’s not unheard of among the nobles; he’s heard the other Dons speculating that Don Alejandro’s mother is baseborn, descended from _conversos_ , a love match that set his father against Isabella. How romantic. How completely inane.

“Of course,” Love adds, turning his thoughts to other things. “I’d be shocked if you could name the country it’s from. Tell you what, should I give you a hint? Or you can guess, and I’ll tell you hot or cold.”

“It is a bold man who tests his betters,” Don Alejandro says, but hollowly. He knows Love has won this round.

_My better._ What a laughable thought. Still, Don Alejandro is more of a rival than Love cares to admit. He _is_ handsome, undeniably, skin supple as calfskin against his coat, eyes blazing. Too handsome for an inbred count. That’s another strike against him. He looks nothing like the Bourbons with their recessed chins and hideous fish jaws.

The moment stretches, and Montero is nowhere to be seen. At least the house is silent now.

Don Alejandro is shaking with anger, and finally he shoots to his feet. It’s odd to see him so graceless, and Love finds he enjoys it. 

“Well, it seems our visit has come to an end,” Don Alejandro says. “How unfortunate.”

Watching an enemy flee is satisfying, no doubt, but not as satisfying as running him down. “Going so soon?” Love says. Sitting, Don Alejandro standing, he has to blink up into the sunlight to see him. “Don Rafael will be insulted.”

“I would not presume to intrude on family affairs.”

“You’ve intruded already,” Love says, thinking of Don Alejandro’s shameful display with Elena at that party when he first appeared. Cavorting like a pair of peasants, too-familiar.

“Sadly, I must insist,” Don Alejandro says. “But my best wishes and luck to you... with both father and daughter.” He turns his back to Love, already starting down the steps leading out of the courtyard.

Without quite thinking Love is on his feet, close behind him. Don Alejandro is quick, but not quick enough. He’s just turning when Love’s punch catches him in the throat. 

He falls back a step, choking, off-balance on the stairs. Love shoves him down and he trips, landing hard just a few steps down.

He has a heartbeat of stunned disbelief—what is he thinking? If Montero returns and sees this he is finished—but it’s too late now. Before Don Alejandro, already recovering, can reach for his cane, Love steps down and neatly kicks it away. Then he steps onto Don Alejandro’s chest.

As well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Or a man.

Don Alejandro turns his head, spluttering. Between coughs he says, “Captain. Your hospitality is not—“

“Shut up.” Still ensuring that his foot is keeping Don Alejandro pinned, Love kneels, the other knee on his arm. 

Don Alejandro’s left hand his free. To keep him from trying anything foolish Love draws his knife and levels it at Don Alejandro’s belly. A few threads of fine fabric fray loose, splitting like bad rope. 

“Don’t move,” Love says. “I’ve killed better men than you.”

“No doubt. But I have done nothing to merit killing.” He’s still smiling as if this is a game, as if Love wouldn’t enjoy scraping the skin back from his ribcage.

“I’m not the hanging judge,” Love tells him. “I don’t need proof for my executions.”

For a second Don Alejandro’s eyes widen, mouth pulled tight. Then the moment passes. “But Don Rafael does, and it is him you serve.”

His voice is confident, even haughty. Does he think he’s being convincing? A real Don’s piss would be soaking the tiles by now.

“He trusts my judgement,” Love says.

“No.” One corner of Don Alejandro’s lips lifts. An impossible grin, given the circumstances. “He does not. And he wants things you cannot get for him.”

Little does he know _._ Love leans closer, so close he can feel Don Alejandro’s breath stir the hairs of his beard, so close he can feel the warmth of Don Alejandro’s skin against his thighs, the dampness of his sweat. “You would be surprised to learn what I’ve gotten. For him and for myself.”

That pulse hammering in Don Alejandro’s throat, making the velvet skin twitch above Love’s foot, is that fear or anger? The urge to lick it rises swiftly, and just as swiftly he quashes it _._

“No enormity of yours would surprise me, Captain,” Don Alejandro says.

Such self-righteousness. What does a man like this have to offer besides his shock and the pleasure of it? As a sailor Love had once bedded—been bedded by—a man, that most unholy act to make God turn his face away. A Mohammedan Turk, so it didn't count; a veteran of their bloody revolts, foul-mouthed, scarred, handsome. "You are as pretty as a woman," he’d whispered in Love’s ear, "so for me it does not count, either."

He wonders what Don Alejandro would say if he knew that. So he leans in, hearing Alejandro’s breath catch like a lover’s in the act, and describes it to him, polite, detached, graphically detailed, still straddling him. Watching the face below him intently, waiting to see Don Alejandro’s scandal, disgust, even fear, the moment before he hides it behind bravado. Just as he hid his horror at Murrieta’s head behind the thinnest veneer of wit.

Yet when Love is done, has wrung out every shocking thing from his memory he can think of, all Don Alejandro says is, “If all your courtships are conducted in so unseemly a manner as this, sir, it is no wonder that Don Rafael seeks a better match for his daughter.”

The insult should make him angry, but Elena feels a hundred thousand miles away, even though she’s just inside, could look out and see this. Don Alejandro, prone and helpless beneath him, splayed out.

For some reason that thought makes arousal prickle in his belly. He tries not to shift his weight. Don Alejandro is breathing hard, chest rising and falling. No doubt he _is_ afraid. Does he think he’s going to be ravished in the garden? Laughable.

_And yet…_ What is forbidden has always been the most alluring. He’s not alone in this, he knows; you can see it everywhere, the Spanish noblemen slipping out of their houses in the black of morning to meet with their mistresses. But Love is just a commoner, lower than a commoner, a nobody from Vermont, the son of a miner and a woman he didn’t marry. Such things are not just permissible to him but seemly, even correct.

To make another person your meat, to be like Saturn in his divinity, devouring his son… that is to spit in the eye of laws, gods, men. And of course, the flesh provides so many other pleasures. Those, too, are a full feast of the forbidden.

Don Alejandro is so perfectly composed that he has clearly not trod even the first step of that road. For example, the lad’s innocence with Elena. The picture of gallantry, like all her suitors, but in him there is nothing performative, nothing false. He is heartrendingly earnest, almost sweet, as if he has never truly seen a woman before her. Perhaps he hasn’t.

The thought makes Love smile. Don Alejandro’s first true love. Untarnished and fresh as the first buds of spring.

“Don’t worry about the daughter,” Love tells him. “She and I will be fine. Should I show you?”

Don Alejandro’s face finally shows confusion and mingled alarm. Love takes advantage of his surprise to lean in, and seizes the inside of Don Alejandro’s lip between his teeth, biting hard. Hard enough to split the skin, draw blood.

Don Alejandro comes to life under him, knocking the knife out of Love’s hand and sending it clattering across the ground, bringing his knees up under him and using them to pinion Love off. Love starts to fall sideways catches himself, kicks at Don Alejandro’s side. A glancing blow. Don Alejandro is already starting to roll away, clambering to his feet. Moving towards the steps, and the fallen cane.

Love is taller, and he makes in two strides what takes Don Alejandro three. They reach the cane at the same time, facing each other across it. Don Alejandro is red-faced, blood smeared across his teeth, hair rumpled. But his face is a mask, and his eyes are frozen.

He has the sense, Love thinks, to not give the pleasure of a reaction, though perhaps not the experience to know it's pointless. To pretend is, in itself, a response.

“A duel, then?” Love says. “I’ll let you pick the weapon and the time. I’ll even suggest a second for you.”

“A duel would be proper,” Don Alejandro says. His voice is level, if high and thin. “But a duel is for gentlemen and peers, and you, Captain, are neither.”

Love gives a smile that tastes like yet another failure. His gambit has not worked. “Gentleman or thief, you’ll never be my peer.”

“Praise God for his mercy,” Don Alejandro says and shoves him away, hard.

He should have known. Real gold is so much softer than fake. The fake does not give.

* * *

Montero returns, red-faced, a smile pasted on even as his eyes glimmer with anger. Whatever happened inside has obviously soured his mood.

“I apologize, gentlemen,” he says, sitting down. That fixed smile never leaves his face. “My daughter had need of me.”

_Doubtful_ , Love thinks, at the same time Don Alejandro says, “A man’s duty to his family is absolute,” as if he knows anything about it. Well, maybe he does—here in the lions’ den for a dead… what? Brother?

“Of course,” Montero says with some bite. “And a true pleasure the duty is.”

Don Alejandro smiles as if this is a joke and not unbecoming petulance. For all Montero’s pride in and obvious love for Elena, so often it seems that she rubs against something in him, like someone rubbing a file on the bare sole of your foot. Elena is Montero’s dearest treasure, his princess and only love. No man is good enough for her; maybe, barely, the crown prince, or the pope. And it seems as if he can hardly tolerate her.

The wine must burn the bite Love has left on the inside of Don Alejandro’s mouth, but he drinks as if he does not feel it. Smart to take the alcohol, though. This is a man who has sustained some injury and knows how to bear it.

The bite will linger for weeks, regardless, and sting fiercely. A memento. He feels the curl of arousal coiling in him again, lazier.

Who knows what lurks in the hearts of men? Love, too, takes a sip of his rich, suffocating king's wine. It mixes oddly with the taste of Don Alejandro’s blood, becomes almost sweet. He can still feel Don Alejandro’s mouth, feel the searing press of that wiry, strong body against his hips, his chest.

Maybe he will have this ‘nobleman’ wholly before he kills him. Pin him to the floor. Tear his clothes. Tear his skin, too, with his nails and his teeth. Strip away the lies, the pretence, the wordplay, so only brute flesh remains. Break him like an unbroken stallion, like a bull, astride him. Covered in sweat, in dust, in blood, cut enough to enrage but not to kill. The red flag flashing in his peripheral vision, driving him to an insanity of fury until the bloodlust and the lust are the same.

He fills his head with these thoughts, and sips his drink, and smiles into Don Alejandro’s unseeing eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> "Weight of Gold" made me want to write this fic, since I so enjoyed Love's lust for his enemy. We can have little a Love/Murrieta, as a treat, right? Of course, that fic is beautiful and poignant, and my fic is weird, but despite that I’ve unabashedly taken much inspiration from the author. 
> 
> Love’s backstory is loosely based on the real Harrison Love, because why not? Obviously, nothing should be considered historical fact.
> 
> Inspired by the deleted scene where Alejandro remarks that a champagne has “icy fire in its veins,” and Don Diego tells him he’s embarrassing himself. Barolos may have been sweet wines at the time, but how could I resist tormenting our adorable hero? And of course, I acknowledge that Alejandro could easily have killed or least disarmed Love, but sometimes a Zorro must bide his time.


End file.
